pot of beans boiling or simmering, reading about beans or thinking about beans, beans of thoughts, little heads of beans, Anasazi beans and sangre de toro beans, black beans of little eyes of small animals, beans cleaned out for debris and rocks, dirt, beans that taste of earth and steam, with sliced pan-fried anaheim or hatch chiles, “lost all patience for people who primarily think about food, particularly their own. it’s solopsistic and boring,” cara b. said on facebook, i met her on the top floor of a big hotel overlooking the zocalo in mexico city, where i clomped out on the balcony on crutches with broken ankle from backpacking cascades in northern washington, we were there with a bunch of writers, harry gamboa, ruben martinez, reed johnson, karla diaz & mario ybarra, luis valdez, tom hayden sneering early in the morning as we gathered for nice breakfast buffeet on the high balcony across from Palacio Nacional, we’re all just beans, beans simmering or boiling in our pots together or alone, steam of thoughts rising in the kitchen of the world, on the fires of desire, on the wings of heat, red beans, pintos, cooking those beans not bullets, paper beans and beans of electric words, not for killing anyone, not suicidal, but simple—rip a tortilla in half, eat some beans

peiltisch

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